Don't Want to Be
by Fire Bear1
Summary: Whenever they have an argument, Francis runs from his boyfriend and straight into the arms of a willing woman. However, how much longer can he keep it up, especially when Arthur begins to act strangely?
1. A Murderer

_**This is based on Unfaithful by Rhianna which I think I must have listened to a while back while either RPing FrUK or writing it. Either way, I thought it suited them. The title is meant to be read with the chapter title so that it says "Don't Want to Be A Murderer."**_

_**Warning: Suicide. Um, I'm not clued up firsthand and I didn't really research much because... well, the second chapter will show why exactly and I'll explain more then, I think, but... Yeah, this is all from my imagination and I apologise so much if people get offended by it. After writing this first part, I don't think I'd really like to read up on it too much. I'm certainly not saying that anything that happens in this story can cause people to harm themselves nor that these sorts of reasons are the only ones but...**_

_**Oh, also, for some reason, there's a lot more swearing in this story than I usually have. Not entirely sure how that one works out...**_

* * *

As quietly as he could, Francis slipped from the bed. He had managed to lull the young woman to sleep even though it was only early evening. However, he could not stay, not here, not any longer. There was something he had to fix.

After he had gathered his clothes, he carefully stepped out of the room and got dressed in the bathroom. Examining himself in the mirror, he washed off the lipstick marks. His hair was a mess and he was thankful that he always carried a compact brush in his pocket. Running it through his hair quickly, he tried to recall how he had left that morning. A ponytail, he decided, and quickly tied it up with a band he found lying around – it looked similar to those he owned.

He would just have to hope the smells wouldn't linger after a trip on the Tube.

Silent as the grave, Francis left the flat in the centre of London and hurried to the nearby station. He wrinkled his nose at the smells. This city was not as beautiful as Paris but he had stayed here for an important reason.

It didn't take long for him to arrive home. The light in the living room was on. That was good – it meant he hadn't attempted to cook. Perhaps he had been held up, too. Maybe his excuse would be accepted.

"You're late," came his voice. Francis was still removing his coat and shoes and did not look at him. "Where have you been?"

Finally, Francis steeled himself. Would they continue to fight, like they had that morning? Or would they pretend that it hadn't happened? With a sigh, he looked up at his boyfriend, flashing him an apologetic smile. "Oui. There was a mix-up and I had to fix it, chéri."

"Oh," said Arthur, grimacing. "I had a bit of overtime myself. Would you like to cook or go out for dinner?"

"Cooking would save money?" asked Francis, tilting his head.

Arthur stared at him, his toxic eyes boring into Francis. "Hm. Yes, I suppose so. Shall I leave you to it?"

"It would help," Francis said, hesitantly. Was this the start of another fight?

"Okay. I want to get back to what I was watching, anyway."

"And what is that?" Francis inquired as he moved past Arthur and headed to the kitchen.

"I'm preparing for the start of the new series of Doctor Who."

Francis grimaced. That was all he would talk about for the next few weeks, he knew. "Oh." He turned to face Arthur who was facing him, staring at him. They gazed at each other for a few moments. Francis was surprised that he was getting off Scott-free. A smile spread across his face and he reached for his precious boyfriend. Arthur, surprisingly, complied and they embraced. They kissed, quick and chaste before Arthur finally pulled away.

"Right. Hurry up with dinner, will you? I'm starving."

"You should have ate when you noticed I would not be home in time," admonished Francis. Waving a hand dismissively, Arthur turned and walked off, closing the door to the room behind him.

Left alone, Francis stared at it. He could never predict Arthur's reactions after he had been 'mysteriously' missing for a few hours. Sometimes the Brit would yell and scream at him, forcing him to leave. At others, he cried and sobbed, unable to look at Francis until they went to bed – there, Francis's comforting would calm him. Recently, more and more, Arthur would ignore it completely. What was going through his head?

In the kitchen, Francis decided to make a simple pot au feu. It required less steps and he was exhausted from the fighting, his work and the sex. He paused in his preparations at the thought.

Although he seemed like a playboy, he truly adored Arthur. He told the smaller man that he loved him often enough. And, on those occasions that Arthur deigned to say it back, it made his heart leap around his chest and a warm feeling come over him for several hours.

However... There were the arguments. When they had gotten together, Arthur had been swept away by his charm and Francis had been too busy marvelling at his beauty. They had not discovered their true personalities. And the truth was that they clashed.

Inevitably, arguments had cropped up. Then, one night, a horrible fight occurred – they both lashed out at each other and Arthur had uttered three words which shocked and worried Francis. 'I hate you.' The latter had hurried from the house. To be terribly honest with himself, he was scared to lose him before he truly got to know him in every way. After making up, Francis had vowed to never fight with his lover again.

That lasted a week. When another argument began to brew, Francis rushed from the house. Drowning his sorrows in a nearby bar, a local girl had caught his eye. They began flirting and, before long, he had been slipping from a stranger's house. He had returned home to find Arthur waiting up, worried. They apologised and made up.

And, for some reason, that method – running from the fight before it had truly begun and hooking up with another for a one night stand – kept their relationship from tearing at the seams. In fact, somehow, it had seemed they were getting closer. Francis had been happy, even if the strain of keeping it a secret was troubling.

After a few months, though, that changed and Arthur began to notice. Or he would stay up, irritated, and begin the fight once again. They were beginning to crack. Francis was unsure of what to do – now that it had became a habit, he found it hard to stop. Yet, he knew this was hurting Arthur. He didn't want that. The only things he could think of doing were confessing everything and surviving the inevitable fallout or run from Arthur and let him live to his fullest without him.

Both were unappealing.

Now, suddenly, Arthur had stopped caring. Francis couldn't quite work out what he was doing. He already thought that his boyfriend knew or suspected what he got up to when he disappeared. Had Arthur given up? It hurt to think on – that would mean he had given up on him. Francis didn't want that. Perhaps he should try harder.

He took a deep breath and focussed on the food. Cooking was a reposing task for him and he needed to be calm when he confronted his boyfriend with the meal.

* * *

Why was it that, every morning – or thereabouts – they had an argument?

Francis had run away again, unable to face Arthur's anger. So, once again, he was in a woman's bed. But it was getting late. If he didn't leave now, Arthur would attempt to cook dinner.

"Where are you going?"

Freezing in the act of getting out of bed, Francis glanced over his shoulder. Where had he managed to find this one? She was beautiful; her long, brown hair fanned around her as she propped herself up on an elbow. The flower containing the mass of her hair had been cast aside in their fun. Her smile was soft and played on her mouth with amusement – that mouth had been put to good use. She had a striking figure: thin yet curvy. And her eyes... They weren't as bright as Arthur's but the green in them had caught his attention, reminded him of his boyfriend enough for him to flirt with her.

"I thought that a belle femme like you, chère, would no doubt have a boyfriend," he explained, smoothly. "We would not want to be caught when he returns home."

"You are very observant, Monsieur Bonnefoy," said the woman with a giggle. "But you will be in even more trouble if your own partner was to smell my perfume on you."

Francis raised an eyebrow. This woman was clever. "What are you suggesting?"

"Will you accompany me to the shower?" she asked, sitting up and letting the bedsheets fall to her waist.

He didn't want to be rude. And the shower would definitely help in the long run. Though, that would make him awfully late...

The woman was struggling with the drawer in her bedside cabinet. Francis watched as she finally wrenched it open and reached in. She turned to him with a condom in hand. Ah, so, that was what she wanted in the shower...

Biting his lip, Francis looked away. He didn't want another round. Going home was more preferable. His thoughts turned to Arthur once again and he could almost see his disappointment as he fucked a woman in the shower. The guilt he tried so hard to hide and push down returned. Why was he here? What would this achieve? He sighed: this was beginning to get complicated.

As he ran a hand through his hair, Francis glanced back at the woman who was no longer holding the condom out. She frowned at him and Francis had the horrible feeling that she knew about his relationship problems. With a sigh, she waved him away.

"Go on. Use the shower on your own."

Surprised, Francis blinked at her. "Are you sure, chère?"

"Yes. Go, before I change my mind."

Francis was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He gathered up his clothes and made his way to the bathroom.

* * *

"Where the fuck were you?" demanded Arthur as soon as he entered the house. The Englishman was standing with his arms crossed, glaring at him. "I've tried calling – you didn't answer."

"You did?" asked Francis, though he knew and had ignored them. "I must have had my phone on silent. Désolé, chéri." He stepped forward and pecked Arthur on the cheek but his boyfriend swiftly pushed him away.

"Where. Were. You?!" he snarled.

"Work again. More overtime, I am afraid."

"Why? What was so important it couldn't wait until tomorrow!"

Francis felt relieved. Arthur was back to normal. He could fix this. "Amoureux," he said, gently, "it was some last minute things needed for tomorrow. They could not wait."

"Hmph," said Arthur and turned, heading for the living room. Francis followed along, wondering if Arthur had ate. That was answered by the containers lying on the coffee table. Noticing his gaze, Arthur said, "I picked up something to eat on the way home. Yours is cold. You can put it in the microwave unless you're too snobbish to eat something cooked like that."

Frowning at the accusation, Francis decided to ignore the hurtful comment. "Merci, chéri." He gathered up the containers still full and took them to the kitchen where he put everything onto a plate and popped it in the offending appliance. Once he had set the timer, he returned and settled on the couch next to his boyfriend. Arthur had picked up the book he had been reading and was using it to hide from Francis.

When had this become so difficult? Francis bit his lip to hold in a sigh and breathed heavily through his nose instead. He didn't expect that to draw Arthur from the world he had retreated into but the man looked up, concern flashing across his face.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Just tired," Francis replied. He was. Hiding from Arthur was made all the more difficult when he, in turn, hid from him. What were they running from?

"Are you sure? Are you sure there's nothing bothering you?" demanded Arthur.

Francis's eyebrows furrowed. His boyfriend didn't sound concerned at all. What was he up to? "Non."

"Hmph! Well, _I _ think you should be making more of a fuss about your overtime. They can't keep making you work so much." With that being said, Arthur returned to his book. However, after a few seconds of watching him, Francis could see that he was waiting for a particular response. He was tense, clenching his fingers around his book.

"I cannot-" Francis began.

"Why?!" shouted Arthur, all of a sudden. Francis was taken aback and recoiled in the face of Arthur's wrath. "Why can't you tell them to stick it?! Why do you-? Why can't you-?!" Arthur took a deep breath. "Forgive me. Forget I said anything."

But Francis could tell that something was bugging Arthur. Was this the beginning of the end? Rather concerned, Francis wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist and pulled him closer. "Je t'aime, Arthur," he whispered into his ear. Kissing him just below, Francis's grip tightened. "What is wrong?"

Arthur turned to him and they gazed at each other, worry and fear in both their eyes. Then, instead of responding, Arthur launched himself at Francis, pressing his lips to his, tangling his hand in his hair. Francis held him close with one arm as the other trailed up Arthur's side to the back of his neck. This was not the communication that Francis had been hoping for but it was better than nothing.

The Chinese food was quite forgotten.

* * *

"Aw, do you have to go?" whined the girl. Thinking that he would much rather be with girls who didn't complain, he nodded. "But I want you to stay," said the blonde with a pout. Her mischievous green eyes blinked up at him. "Come on; stay!"

Shaking his head, Francis slipped from under the covers. "I have some things I must do. Désolé."

"Donc dire!" she exclaimed but she did little more than roll onto her back and stretch her arms above her head. "Well, I suppose this saves trouble when my brother returns."

"Oui. Maintenant, excusez-moi."

And with that, once more, he hurried from a woman's house after cleaning himself up. Once he had travelled on the Tube again, Francis reached his home. This time, he knew Arthur would not be there to meet him: his work always had half days on a Friday and he was home earlier than normal. Thankfully, this helped them a little for Francis could always get home before Arthur and prepare their evening meal. He wondered what he should make for dinner as he inserted his key to the lock and turned.

It didn't budge.

Frowning, Francis tried again. Had one or the other of them forgotten to lock the door? Turning the handle, Francis was surprised to find it unlocked and was further shocked to find Arthur's coat, scarf and shoes in their place. Why was he home so early? Was he ill? Had something happened?

Quickly, Francis stripped himself of his outer layers and hurried into the house proper. It didn't take long to find his boyfriend. He was in the living room, sitting on their couch, staring at the mobile phone in his hands.

"Arthur?" asked Francis, perching beside him. The poor man looked shocked. He hoped it was good news. But Arthur didn't respond, only twitching to show he had heard. "Arthur? Why are you home so early?"

"I... I'm working from home today."

"Quoi?" That was definitely odd. The publishing house Arthur worked in, though small, was strict on its rules. One of them was to never take a manuscript home. How could Arthur have worked in the study?

"They're... refurbishing... the office."

"Really? Will it be in colours you like?"

He shook his head in response, still staring at the phone. Francis was beginning to get a bit spooked. "They're down-sizing," he whispered, finally, so quiet that Francis had to hold his breath to hear him. "It won't be long before they start laying people off. Francis, they might... I might lose this job."

Francis knew how hard that knowledge would be for Arthur. He adored books, perhaps loved them more than Francis, his own little worlds into which he could escape. The publishing company's offer had been a dream come true for him and he truly enjoyed working there. Being let go would be a horrible experience – especially as it was unlikely any other publishing companies would be hiring in this economic climate.

But something felt off. This could not be the reason Arthur was so subdued. He would brag about how he would be kept on. And, even if he was let go, he'd get back up again. There was no way something so small in the grand scheme of things would sadden him.

"Arthur?" he tried again, a little quieter.

"I... My mum..."

"Is she ill? Should we... go visit?" That would be a horrible thing. Although his mother loved Arthur, his father hated his gay son. It was only eclipsed by his hatred for Francis since he was gay, had 'turned his son gay' and was French.

Suddenly, Arthur raised his head, his eyes filled with unshed tears. How long had he been holding back? Francis felt as if he was staring at two lagoons on a tropical island. It took his breath away – and then he couldn't take a breath because, surely, whatever was wrong was something deadly serious.

"She... had a massive heart attack. Fran, she just _dropped dead_. I-I haven't spoken to her in person for years. I never got to see her after- And I wanted to- She's _dead_."

As his eyes widened in shock, Francis pulled Arthur to him. He could feel the poor man's body shaking, hear his sobbing, feel his tears through his shirt. What should he do? What could he say?

"I'm sure she knew you bore her no ill will. You still spoke, oui?" The only response he received was more sobbing. He waited till the tears had subsided somewhat, holding Arthur close, before speaking again. "When is-? Do you want me to accompany you?"

Arthur shook his head but didn't sit up to look at Francis. Instead, he clutched him closer. "Dad will make a scene," he mumbled into Francis's shoulder. "I don't want- Sorry."

"It's not your fault," Francis assured him, rubbing at his back. "Shall I drive you down?"

"No, it's fine. I-I'll go myself. I'll make a weekend of it-" His voice broke off in a strangled croak. Taking a breath, he said, "It's this Sunday. I'll leave tomorrow."

"Oui," said Francis. He held Arthur close for a while longer, not speaking, merely listening to his boyfriend's distress. When he heard Arthur finally breathing deeply, he knew that the distraught man was asleep. Francis gently lowered him to the couch and fetched a blanket. While his boyfriend slept, Francis decided to help in any way he could – and he could do that by packing his bags and making up a lunch for him to take.

* * *

Although Francis felt guilty for his observation, after the funeral, their arguments lessened. On the one hand, he didn't want to upset Arthur further. And, on the other, he felt that Arthur was too upset to care about most things. Anything that normally riled him went ignored or only received a shrug.

Arthur's mother had supported him in everything and continued to speak with him after he had revealed his sexual orientation. It was his mother who had encouraged his love of magic and fantasy as a child and had been overjoyed at his graduation with an degree in English and Creative Writing. When he had moved to London to start his first job, she had sobbed and held him close. Though she did not try to change his father's opinion of him and gay people in general, she tried to support Arthur from a distance.

Now she was gone and it seemed that it was hitting Arthur hardest out of all his siblings. He had bawled when he had discovered that he had inherited most of his mother's money and her precious tea set. When he had brought it home, he had put it somewhere out of the way, careful not to chip any of the cups.

Francis could only watch from a distance and provide him with soft words. However, despite the grief, Arthur seemed to be more willing to smile for him than before. They were grateful smiles but it made Francis's heart skip beats or speed up.

This continued for two weeks (during which Arthur had taken a holiday so he could go back to work with a clearer mind). Francis returned home from work on a Monday, on time for once, and noted that Arthur had gotten back before him. He thought this was strange as Arthur had had a lot of work to catch up on – surely he should still be at work?

"Arthur, I'm home!" he cried as he shucked his coat. "Where are you?"

"Livin' room," came the reply and Francis froze. Had he just heard Arthur slurring? Was there something wrong or...?

Cautiously, Francis entered the room and gaped at the sight. Several empty bottles littered the floor, and a half-full one dripped something which was staining the carpet. Full ones had rolled everywhere, too. A cardboard box had been tipped on its side and lay on the table. Papers were strewn everywhere, almost as though someone had angrily swept them away. A blonde head poked around the couch, laid on the armrest.

"Quoi...?" he asked, wondering what had happened.

"Franny!" shouted Arthur. "Come drink!" With that, he tipped a bottle upside down above his head, missing his mouth for the most part. Francis hurried forward as Arthur began to choke on the alcohol.

"How long have you been drinking?" he demanded when he reached him. Quickly, he took the bottle away and tried to sit the drunkard up. Arthur awkwardly flailed and sat up straight. When he did, he almost toppled over the other way but Francis gripped his shoulder tightly and steadied him. "How long?" he asked again, shaking him slightly. Arthur's head lolled and he blinked unfocussed eyes.

"Um..." He held up a hand and began to count. "One, two, three... Lotsa hours!" Giggling, he patted Francis's face. "Since this morning."

"Why?!" exclaimed Francis, flabbergasted. "What about your work?"

"Work-Work don't need me," snarled Arthur, his face suddenly darkening. "They don't want me there any more." Once again, he giggled. "I'm goin' t'send them hate mail – with monkey shit in it!" At that, he started to laugh hysterically, clutching his stomach and slipping from Francis's grasp to lie on his side. He kicked his legs, his high pitched laughter making Francis wince.

Biting his lip, Francis carefully and gently stroked his partner's hair. So he had been fired. He hadn't expected him to spiral down to this level. Where was the determined man he had met in the pub that night a few years ago?

With a long-suffering sigh, he stood up. "Come along, you. Bedtime."

"Don't wanna!" wailed Arthur. "Gimme more," he added, sitting up – rather shakily – to reach for a bottle of what appeared to be tequila.

"There will be more in bed," Francis tried.

"But I only wan' _you_ in bed," mumbled Arthur, though he was so loud in his drunken state that Francis heard him and blushed slightly. He was ever so cute when he was being honest. "Will _you_ be in bed?"

"Of course," agreed Francis, glancing at the mess he would have to clean up. Waiting till Arthur had passed out would probably be for the best. "Come on." Francis pulled Arthur to his feet and helped him to the bedroom. When they reached it, Arthur began to undress, using the bed to balance. Francis watched, hovering around him, trying to help. Arthur pushed him away, though, until, finally, he was wearing only his boxers.

After collapsing onto the bed, Arthur reached out to Francis with both hands. "C'mon," he slurred, gesturing for Francis to lie with him. Sighing, Francis removed his suit jacket and tie before getting onto the bed next to him. He wrapped his arms around his distraught boyfriend and held him close as he began to drunkenly whisper into his ear. "You always need to be in m'bed, 'kay? 'Cause I need you. You're not allowed to leave, 'kay? Don't leave, please, God, please, Fran. What... do I do now?" As he began to sob, Francis rubbed at his back and, soon, his soothing gestures had lulled Arthur to sleep. When he realised this, Francis got up, tucked Arthur in and left his boyfriend to his sleep.

There was a living room to clean and he was hungry...

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Arthur's mood worsened. Mostly, he was frustrated when he couldn't find work in the fields he had chosen. Then he couldn't find work at all, what with the current economic climate – a lot of other people with more suitable experience kept being hired instead. Half of the time, Francis would find him pulling at his hair.

And the rest of the time...

"What fucking time do you call this?!" snapped Arthur as soon as he entered.

Tiredly, Francis sighed and looked up. He had been held up in work because of a mistake that took a good few hours fixing – he had certainly not been in someone else's bed. For once. "I already sent you a message, mon bonbon."

"Yes, but you never told me you'd be so late! I made dinner and now it's ruined because the timings were all off!" Arthur's face was scrunched up and he looked livid. His hands were fists at his side and he appeared tense.

"Désolé, I was not sure-"

"Lies! You're lying!" Arthur pointed at him accusingly.

Francis's heart stopped. Did he know? Had he found out? "What... do you mean?" he asked, hesitantly.

"You-You just-!" For a second, Arthur froze then he dropped his hand and seemed to droop.

"Chéri?"

"It doesn't matter any more. Just... We need food. Dinner."

"Arthur, what's-?"

"Nothing's wrong!" he yelled, suddenly, causing Francis to flinch.

This was getting ridiculous. Francis narrowed his eyes. "There is clearly something wrong. I want you to tell me."

"No."

"Arthur."

"I'm not- It's fine, I'm just-"

"It is not fine!" Francis interrupted, getting more worked up as the conversation went on. "S'il vous plaît, dites-moi ce qui est faux!"

"Shut up! Don't pretend you care about me! Fuck off!"

"I _do_ care about-"

"Well, if you do, _get out_ and leave me alone!"

Silence descended, only broken by Arthur's harsh breathing. A look of pain was clear on his face and Francis wanted nothing more than to scoop him up into his arms. It had been a hard few weeks and kept getting worse. But, when he saw Arthur flinch as he stepped forward, he couldn't stand another, worse argument.

He fled.

* * *

"Francis!" called a woman as he left his work to return home: he hoped today Arthur's mood was better. Blinking, he turned and his eyes widened as he recognised the woman. Her long black hair flew behind her in a long plait tied with red ribbons. A tanned hand waved at him as she hurried over. He knew that she came from some sort of island nation and knew French but he couldn't recall her name.

"Ah, bonjour," he said with a smile, though several horrible scenarios were running through his head.

"Oh, I was so worried I would never see you again! We never exchanged numbers and-"

"Would you like to walk with me?" asked Francis, hurriedly, glancing round at his colleagues who were staring as they passed. "We could go to the Gardens."

"Ooh, that sounds lovely!" exclaimed the woman.

And that was how Francis found himself in the Botanic Gardens. He had come here often with Arthur. It was the one place they never fought, they could just be happy together in a comfortable silence. Sometimes Arthur even allowed him to hold his hand. Their favourite place was the rose pergola, its beauty and tranquillity washing over them.

On the way there, the woman had chattered on. Luckily, she happened to be the kind of woman who named themselves in their ramblings, saying things like, "So I said to myself, 'Michelle, you must find this guy if you can't get him out of your head!'"

As they entered the Gardens, Arthur chose to message him and ask if he would like to go for a walk. Francis responded by saying that he would be spending time in the office again because of paperwork. His boyfriend seemed to accept this and told him that he would see him later.

When they finally reached the pergola, Francis turned to Michelle and made a quick inspection of her face. Her eyes weren't green and, for some reason, Francis felt disappointed in himself. There was something hypnotic about green eyes. Why had he settled for these?

"Michelle, chère, why are you here?"

The woman looked up at him with a wide smile on her face. "Silly! Because I love you! And I know you love me; you told me that often enough on the night we met. And I have found you again. It is fate!"

Francis hated these sorts of situations and sighed. He was growing tired of them and himself – what had he been thinking? "I am afraid you are quite mistaken."

"Eh?"

"I..." He sighed again before taking a deep breath. There was no way out of this and he didn't know how to let her down gently. "I do not love you."

"Eh?" The poor woman looked so bewildered. Francis wished he hadn't gotten himself into this situation. From now on, he should stop this playboy attitude. "What do you mean?" she continued as he pondered on his future.

He steeled himself for what was about to come. "I... lied when I said I loved you. Désolé. I did not mean to hurt you."

Expecting her to make a scene, he waited patiently. She studied his face and, after a while of him cringing, she gave a nod as if she was satisfied. "Is there someone else?" she suddenly asked.

Startled, he blinked but his thoughts immediately turned to Arthur and he smiled softly. "Oui."

"Ah." Michelle shrugged, seemingly nonplussed. "Then you owe me a dinner."

"Quoi?"

"Don't you remember?" she demanded. When Francis sent her a puzzled look, she sighed. "I see how it is. You picked me up in a bar. I tried to resist you when you wanted to come to mine but you said you would take me on a proper date. I asked if it would be a dinner. You said yes. I want my free food."

"Oh. Er, I am late as it-"

"It can wait," Michelle interrupted, glaring.

Feeling it was only fair on the poor woman – who he was beginning to suspect had only stopped him on a whim and for a free dinner – he nodded. "Oui."

Taking her to a nearby French restaurant, he really did treat her to a dinner and a proper date. It was frustrating that he felt trapped by her – for some reason Arthur had called him in the middle of their main course. Although he was wondering what he needed to call him for, Francis let it ring out. Let him believe he was too busy and could not answer or hear it...

* * *

When he finally reached his home, he was surprised to find Alfred banging on the door, Kiku hovering nearby. Perhaps Arthur had gone out for a walk, forgetting he had guests coming.

"Stop that," he said as he reached them. "You will break our door."

"Maybe I need to!" cried Alfred. The two men turned to look at him. They appeared worried and panicked.

"Quoi?" murmured Francis, frowning as he moved past them to unlock the door.

"Arthur sent us a message," explained Kiku, resting a hand on Alfred's arm to stop him from doing anything stupid.

"Oh?"

"It simply said, 'Goodbye'."

Francis froze with his key in the lock. Throwing a shocked look over his shoulder at them, he said. "That... That makes no sense."

"Dude, Artie's been real down recently," Alfred spoke up, frowning at Francis. "His mom, his job, we've not had time to spend with him, the job hunting. But, even before that... And now. Just hurry it up already and open the fucking door!" he exploded, bouncing a little.

"I-I am sure it is nothing to worry about," Francis muttered. Before everything...? Had he noticed? Quickly, with a rising panic within him, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. He hurried in. "Arthur?" he called.

"Artie, dude! Where are ya?!"

They wordlessly split up to search. Francis hurried into the living room and Kiku took the kitchen. Alfred bounded upstairs and, after only a few moments, he cried out. "Arthur! Oh, God! Someone-!" In an instant, the other two rushed upstairs. Kiku reached the bathroom first. Francis pushed his way in, though three were too many to fit. Or, rather, four were too many to fit.

Arthur lay, naked, in the bath, his eyes closed. It was full of water but that was now stained red. A sharp kitchen knife lay on the floor, a smear of blood on the tiles. As Francis stared, Alfred pulled one of Arthur's arms from the tub. They could all clearly see the deep cut.

"Jesus!" Alfred turned to Kiku. "Quick! Get some towels or something!" Dutifully, Kiku turned and began to look for a clean one. Then Alfred's eyes bore into Francis's: he had shifted so that Francis could no longer just stare at Arthur's lifeless body. "Don't just stand there!" he snapped, the fury evident. "He's still alive! Get an ambulance!"

For a few seconds, Francis could only stare, watching as Kiku pulled towels from the box they were kept in. This couldn't really be happening...

"Francis!" shouted Alfred.

That got him moving. He turned and fled the scene, almost toppling down the stairs as he tried to reach the phone in the hall. It was an old-style one, the sort with the big dial you had to turn. Arthur had been ecstatic to find it in an antique shop and managed to get it hooked up. He enjoyed using it to call his mother.

As he grabbed the receiver, he realised he had his mobile in his pocket. He could have called from the room. It seemed his body had decided he needed to be as far as possible from the ghastly sight. Quickly, he dialled 999, cursing the fact that he had to wait for the dial to turn back around. Then, with a strained voice, he demanded for an ambulance, for the only thing that could save Arthur.

* * *

_**I'm really sorry. =/**_

_**When I was writing this, towards the end, I was trying to type out the scene you would see with Arthur in the bath and- *shudders* I actually cuddled my wrists to myself. Which is why, when I belatedly realised I should have looked this up, I couldn't bring myself to. I am so sorry.**_

_**Please don't hate Francis! They both have horrible communication skills and he's only dealing with this the only way he knows how. Well, he thinks it's the only way. Idiot. ¬.¬ But, this may be just me defending him so people don't think I hate him. I may just be coming up with excuses. =/**_

_**But it all stems from my original idea from this which was them to have an argument and, well, I think I had a vague idea for him to come home to a similar scene. But it just really stopped there. However! I changed it. And now it's this. Which is probably awful.**_

_**Michelle ain't bad either! She's just super mad she let herself get duped into letting Francis in and really annoyed at him. So, when she spots him, she decides to give him a taste of his own medicine somewhat. She doesn't love him but she liked to watch him panic.**_

_**The first girl was Michelle, then Hungary and then Belgium. Just cause I thought I'd bring the actual girls in instead of creating OCs or bringing in the Nyotalia girls. **_

_**Speaking of Elizaveta, she's with Gil in this and they're having some problems. So Liz was just using Francis to get at Gil. Meanwhile, Bella was just using him for some fun. **_

_**Huh. If you look at it like that, perhaps the girls were the ones seducing a miserable, worried, hurt, frustrated Francis.**_

_**Still, not exactly a good excuse. **_

_**For some reason, I randomly had Arthur call Francis "Fran" and "Franny". I'm not sure why but that's totally gonna be his nickname that Arthur will use in my stories from now on. However! Francis never calls Arthur a shortened name because "all of him is beautiful and he doesn't want to taint that". Al still uses Artie, though.**_

_**Al and Kiku will be explained at the end of this, as will a few other things.**_

_**And I'm so sorry. =/**_


	2. Alone

_**I could totally have uploaded this last night but I was lazy and didn't. Lazy or tired. Whatever.**_

* * *

"Dieu merci! Arthur, oh, Dieu merci!" cried Francis as he rushed into the room. The past day had been horrifying as he waited for Arthur to wake up. Of course, he had to wake when Francis had gone to get some tea. It was a shame that the hospital didn't serve wine.

However, Francis stopped short when he noticed Alfred and Kiku. The American was glaring at him, the anger evident. Meanwhile, Kiku was frowning. Why were they in such a bad mood – and why was it directed at him?

Deciding to ignore it, he turned to stare in relief at Arthur. His beautiful eyes were gazing back tiredly and Francis was relieved he could see them once more. He hurried forward, slipping past the angry American.

"Ah, Dieu merci. You woke up!" breathed Francis as he reached him. Sitting on the bed, he clutched Arthur's hand. For some reason, though, Arthur weakly pulled it from his grip. Francis stared at their hands for a moment, confused.

"Yeah, no thanks to you!" growled Alfred from across the room. When Francis looked over, he could see him trembling, as though he was having trouble containing his anger.

"Quoi?" Francis asked him, confused.

"This is all-!" began Alfred but Kiku tugged at his arm and shook his head. Alfred took a deep breath and glanced towards Arthur, his eyebrows raised.

The sigh from beside him captured Francis's attention. Looking round at Arthur, he noted how pale he was. Although Francis was glad that he had survived, that they had got to him in time, he was worried about how ill he now looked. How long would it be till he could come home? How long would it be until Francis could hold him close in bed once again?

"Francis," said Arthur, sounding a little hoarse. "Listen: Alfred is going to go home and pick up my things."

"I can do that, chéri," Francis assured him. Why would he want Alfred to do that?

"No, I- I can't have you here, Fran," said Arthur, sounding pained. "It's not... I can't do this any more."

Staring, Francis shook his head. "What do you mean? Cannot do what?"

"Look, I- After everything that happened, I thought I could... rely on you. To get me through it." Arthur brought a shaking hand to his eyes and wiped at them. "But, I-I saw you. Yesterday. On our anniversary. With-With that woman."

Frozen in his seat, Francis stared. No, he couldn't have. He had still been at home. There was no way he could have seen. Was he breaking up with him? This couldn't be happening. What had he done? "N-Non. That was-"

"Don't lie to him!" growled Alfred, breaking free of Kiku's grip for a moment and stepping forward. Francis flinched but Kiku caught Alfred's arm again and pulled him back.

"I already know, lo- Francis," said Arthur with a sigh, ignoring Alfred's outburst. "I've known for a while. You run off to find someone to sleep with. I-I know I'm not the most pleasant of people to live with but... It hurts. And it hurts more every time you do it. I can't live, waiting for you to come home, hoping-" Arthur suddenly sobbed, cutting himself off as he wiped furiously at his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, Francis saw Alfred twitch but he tried to ignore it.

"Non, that is in the past, I assure-"

"Enough!" cried Arthur. He slammed his hand into the bed, letting his tears fall. Flinching, he brought a hand to his head and held it for a moment. "Enough, Francis. This isn't working. It never did."

"S'il vous plait, Arthur, do not-"

"I'm going to stay at Al's when I get out of here. Please don't try to contact me." Arthur fixed him with a piercing gaze – it was sad, angry and pained all at once. It broke Francis's heart. Then Arthur looked away and resolutely stared at the wall.

"Please," begged Francis. "Je t'ai-" Arthur gasped slightly as he began to speak and, with the hand closest to Francis, he gripped the bedsheets. Francis only glimpsed these slight movements as he was grabbed from behind and lifted to his feet. When he turned round, shocked, he found icy eyes glaring at him.

"Out," Alfred ordered. "The conversation's over. Out."

Wordlessly, Francis stumbled after Alfred who pulled him towards the door to the room. He wasn't sure he was awake – maybe he had fallen asleep and this was a dream. Or he was hallucinating. Whatever was happening, it couldn't be real.

"Wait," ordered Arthur and everyone obediently froze. Turning back to him, Francis noticed him wincing as he struggled to open the drawer in the bedside cabinet. A desire to hug him tight caused Francis to twitch and Alfred's grip tightened. "Here," said Arthur, finally opening the drawer. Taking something out, he weakly threw a small box at Francis who fumbled to catch it before it hit the floor. Unfortunately, he dropped it and it opened, something flashing in the light as it tumbled out.

"Quoi...?" breathed Francis as he noted the ring. It was a gold band with a small diamond embedded in it. Alfred let go of him and he gathered it up. Was this an engagement ring? Had Arthur been planning on proposing to him?

"I don't want it. I don't ever want to see it again," explained Arthur.

However, when Francis looked back up and their eyes locked, he could see the hidden message in those words. Arthur didn't want to see _him_ again. Francis had lost him.

With tears pricking at his eyes, Francis did the only thing he could: he fled.

* * *

As Arthur declared, Alfred came to the house and picked up some clothes, books and Arthur's precious tea set. He left behind anything sentimental that could be tied with Francis and did it while Francis had been out.

With Arthur gone, Francis was hardly able to concentrate on his work. But he forced himself to go. Afterwards, he somehow found himself in pubs, drinking the night away. The only thing that got him through the next couple of weeks was holding onto the hope that Arthur hadn't meant what he had said. If Francis waited for him to cool off and recover, things would go back to normal – without the people he had slept with. That would not happen once he got Arthur back. He had learnt his lesson the hard way.

However, when he called the hospital towards the end of the second week and asked how Arthur was, he was told that he was being discharged. No-one had discussed this with him so, panicked, he hurried to the hospital, determined to find him, determined to take him home despite his words.

When he reached the reception and asked, however, he was told that he had already left with a tall, blonde man with glasses. Alfred. Realising that he couldn't go to Arthur with Alfred pushing him away, he bemoaned his situation to the receptionist.

Pushing her glasses up her nose, the woman sighed. "He still needs to attend appointments with the hospital psychologist."

Francis brightened. "Really? May I speak with him? I want to know-"

"Ah, there he is now," said the woman, pointing behind him and returning to her work.

Turning, Francis saw a man wearing a suit and a lab coat re-entering the building. His hair was white and his eyes seemed red from this distance. A wide grin was on his face as he nodded to a nurse and passed by. He was carrying a plastic bag and Francis suspected he had been on a break.

Hurrying over, Francis called on him. "Doctor!"

The man stopped and blinked at him. "Ja?" he asked.

"Doctor, please, tell me how my- how Arthur Kirkland is! I must know." Francis didn't care that he was pleading in the entranceway. He was getting rather desperate: he missed Arthur's voice, his eyes, his tea, everything about him; he missed him dearly.

Frowning, the doctor shook his head. "He has recovered for the most part and left. But I am his psychologist, not his doctor."

"Oui, oui! I know! No-one will let me speak with-"

"Oh, wait. You're the French guy, right? His... ex, I suppose."

Francis flinched. "Ah, perhaps. I still hold out hope he will come home-"

"Nein," said the doctor, shaking his head, the locks of his hair shifting across his eyes. "For him to recover mentally, I do not think your home is a good place to be. Too many bad memories. I cannot discuss what he says to me but you will not help him by being there. He needs space – from _you_ in particular."

"Eh? But... I-I just want to know if he is well. If he is- At least tell me if he-" Francis broke off and bit his lip, staring at the polished floor. "Will he be... happier... without me?" he whispered.

"I don't have the answer to that." There was a pause before the doctor sighed. "He'll probably kill me for saying this but I made him start a blog – so he can have some way to talk to people about his troubles without actually speaking to them face-to-face. It is supposed to be so I can tell if he's getting depressed again so I can up his- Ah, er, help him. I can give you its address."

Surprised, Francis looked back up, eyes wide. The doctor was looking at him with a kind smile. "You would...? Vraiment? Tu- Thank you," sighed Francis, flashing the man a small smile, a shadow of his normal one.

"Sure thing," said the man, carelessly, as he began to walk to the reception desk. "It looks like you could use some help, too."

* * *

So, every evening, Francis would log onto his computer – well, it was Arthur's but he hadn't come to claim it yet – and type in the address to see what Arthur had updated. At first, it was simple sentences, like, _I am alive_ and _I cried today_. Sometimes, he would even allude to his wounds, saying something like, _My wrists are itching_.

Then, a month after the incident, Arthur's entry was much more revealing. Francis read it, clutching at a pillow he had brought in from the bedroom for comfort. He cried when he finished it.

_Hello. My name is Arthur Kirkland and I tried to commit suicide. I would like to tell you my story so I can put everything behind me and move on with my life._

_I realised I was gay when I was in high school but I didn't tell anyone nor acted on my desires. There were too many stories I had heard of bullying and I wasn't always treated with respect, anyway. University in Oxford – my home town – was much more accepting and I was able to have – rather short, relationships. My few friends were very accepting but I still didn't tell my parents. I didn't tell them till after I had moved to London to start my career in publishing. For that was when I met Francis and... I fell in love._

_My mother was supportive, still proud of all I had accomplished. My father rejected me and my brothers jeered at me, as usual._

_Of course, after the shock of being rejected, I found I could still call mum, despite not being welcomed in the house. She was the one I was closest to. Except for Francis, of course._

_But my relationship with Francis seemed to deteriorate. We had a lot of arguments. Francis ran from them a lot. Then I began to notice his "extra hours" at the office that he so hated. I suspected he was cheating on me but... I didn't want to confront him or investigate any further. I couldn't bear to lose him._

_After coming to terms with the fact that he would probably continue his flirtatious ways – we got together whilst he already had a boyfriend, unbeknownst to me – I decided it would be best to just ignore it._

_Then everything fell apart. My mum died of a heart attack, I lost my job, I couldn't find another one, my friends were too busy to spare me time. I was spiralling downwards and the only thing keeping me afloat was Francis. But I could feel him slipping through my fingers. _

_And that was when, on our anniversary, I saw him with another woman, in a place I thought he reserved going to with me and only me. _

_I couldn't bear it. I don't think I can bear it. On that day, feeling so alone, I decided to end my life. I left notes and..._

_Well, I was saved so I could continue living. But I can't bear the sight of Francis. Yet... Can I live without him? _

_Alfred and Kiku are my best friends._

_But I feel so alone._

_What do I do?_

…

_Francis. I wonder if you blame yourself? I don't. Did you find the note I hid in the bedside cabinet? Did you listen to that voicemail? _

_I blame myself. That I let myself get so dependent on someone else, that I let myself get so weak._

_No more._

_I will live._

_Even if I have to leave you behind._

After Francis managed to recover, he hurried to the bedroom. He hadn't searched for a note. And, frankly, he had been avoiding that voicemail. It was the last time Arthur had spoken to him before he had tried to kill himself and he couldn't stomach what it said. He was terrified. And, if he was never to hear Arthur's voice again, he didn't want the only thing he could listen to be an apology for trying to take his own life.

But, if Arthur was moving on...

When he found the note, he stared at it. The tears came again but he held them back as he reached for his phone, still staring at the paper in his hands.

_Don't blame yourself. I'm sorry. I should probably have done something before now. But, now, it's just too painful. I can't live like this any more. But please do not blame yourself._

_I love you and I always will._

_Yours,_

_Arthur_

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Francis tapped on his phone until he was calling the voicemail service. Finally, after reciting the date and time, there was a pause – and Arthur's voice came from the speaker, harsh and loud.

"God dammit, Frog! Answer the fucking phone!"

That night, Francis laughed so hard he cried. Then he cried himself to sleep, clutching his phone and the note.

* * *

Over the next few months, Francis's lifestyle changed. Instead of going to pubs and clubs and other places where he could pick up women or men, he would go straight home. There, he would cook to lose himself in the smells and tastes. A lot of the time, he found himself making dishes Arthur often asked for: fish and chips, bangers and mash...

Then, having resisted all day, he would go onto the computer and read any of the new entries Arthur had put up. Some days he was left to worry as Arthur felt that he had nothing worth mentioning. Other days he was moved to tears by something he felt the need to share.

As time passed, Francis realised that he was watching Arthur build his life up again, watching him move on. It was painful but he forced himself to read it every day, often refreshing the page in case Arthur made more than one update.

_Al bought me more clothes today since I don't feel up to going outside. They're either too big or too small. I really need more so I'm going to have to venture out to the shops. What should I buy? Things I wore as a teenager? Or 'stuffy old-man clothes', as Alfred dubs them? Or something in between?_

_Al's starting to struggle with money. He says I don't need to worry but I've been applying to jobs again. I got an e-mail back from one of them – I have a job interview. Better find a suit._

_I didn't get the job. What's wrong with me? Am I completely hopeless? _

_Al found out about my job hunting. He says that I shouldn't and I should go stay at Kiku's till he gets himself sorted out. How will I be able to pay him back if I do that?_

_Al works at a geek shop. His boss gave him more hours today because one of the part-time workers have left to pursue their career. Another employee – a full-time one – is pregnant. They're looking for more people now so Al's encouraging me to apply. I will – but only because... Well. How else will I get a job if I don't try?_

_Gosh, my interview is today. And, if that wasn't enough good news, I see that I have a thousand followers now. I wonder who you all are and why you're so interested in my life. I wonder if you feel as I did before my attempt. I wonder if you gain strength from reading these words._

_I am ready._

_I got the job! For the first time since leaving the hospital, I'm going out drinking tonight!_

_Alcpjal is aaaaaaaaamazzzinnnnnng! But... it made me rememberrg htinf I didnpt want ep. ah. Damn – Alfie is nobtgvckerfbef#JDsnav _

_I've been working in this mediocre job for a few months now – but I don't think I've ever smiled so much. _

_Well, that's a lie..._

_But! Beilschmidt tells me I have to stop dwelling on that. Are you happy, hm? I know you're reading this. Though... I don't think it was a good idea to demand I follow _you_. You seem to have more problems than me!_

_Al is reading this over my shoulder and is demanding I put in an 'emoticon'. I'm currently telling him to fuck off without opening my mouth._

_:P_

_Tsk. He managed to get a hold of this laptop and he says he won't leave me alone for the rest of the day if I delete that. He's such a royal pain in the arse. Bastard._

_Anyway, I have gone into a happy little tangent because, well... I'm not sure if this is real._

_Apparently, a publisher from a well-known publishing house has come across this blog. He messaged me earlier to ask if I would be able to write my entire life into a novel. It would be difficult but... Perhaps it would help. _

_They want to meet me tomorrow. Al says he's coming 'no matter what' to 'protect' me because 'that's what heroes do!' … I don't think he quite understands that this is very important to me and if he comes he's bound to fuck it up. _

_If he fucks it up I reserve the right to castrate him and that damned cat he found recently. He's calling him 'Hero'. I tried to dissuade him but... The poor cat is stuck with it. And I'm apparently stuck with him jumping up and trying to type. I've already had to delete a lot of this and start over because he keeps_

_EDIT: I'm sorry. He kept jumping up so I hit the post button by mistake. (I was trying to save the draft to finish later but...)_

_I'm probably going to neglect this blog for a while as I've got a deadline for this book. At least I'm getting paid for it. _

_Still working at Al's shop, though._

_Oh! Speaking of Al, he finally got a bit part in some sort of drama. Can't wait until it comes on TV – I'll be able to laugh at him being 'super serious'. He's reciting his lines just now-_

_In fact, he's shouting them into my ear. _

_It's too hard to concentrate just now – excuse me while I throw all of Al's games in the bin._

_It's finished. Done. Off to get published, printed, sent to the shops. I'm so excited!_

_Life is great just now._

_But... Not quite perfect._

_Oh._

_Oh, I..._

_I didn't think it would sell so many. I've just seen it on the TV. Everyone seems to love it. What do I do? I'm not sure what to do. This is amazing._

_I am so, so grateful to you all for sticking with me._

_Thank you so much._

* * *

As Francis dressed himself that morning, he reflected on the past year. A short laugh escaped him as he realised that, while he had watched Arthur get his life back on track, he had completely abandoned his plans and dreams. It was as though he had gotten himself stuck in a rut, unable to pull himself from it, unwilling to move. He found himself unable to care, though, of how much his mood depended on whether Arthur had updated or not.

Shaking himself from his dreary thoughts, he made sure his clothes were straight and would not stand out too much in a bookshop. A suit, he had decided, was not the best of things to wear for someone specifically set to go there. Instead, he wore a simple blue shirt and a pair of smart-casual, black trousers. Once he had checked himself in the mirror, he picked up his copy of Arthur's book and left the house.

Of course, when he had first heard about the release of the book, he was unsure as to whether he should buy it or not. Going by a shop on his way home from work one day, he had found himself ducking in to stare at a display. Somehow the Englishman had become extremely popular and his book glared at Francis from the moment he stepped in. After a few minutes of staring at it, his hand twitching, wanting to lift one, an irritated young woman had asked him to pick one up or get out of the way. The manner in which she spoke to Francis had startled him and he had grabbed a book without thinking. Before he knew what had happened, he was sitting in the living room, wondering if he should open it.

His curiosity had won out. The book detailed – in rather surprising detail which pulled the reader in – Arthur's entire life. Early years contending with his brothers, realising his sexuality, his experimenting with young men at university, landing a job, Francis... It also dealt with Arthur's attempted suicide and Francis was left sobbing at the blank pages, left there deliberately before the story picked up again with Arthur's reawakening.

Francis didn't need to know the statistics to know that it was a hit.

But, apparently, Arthur had not realised how popular it could possibly be until he announced the signing he would be doing in the centre of London. Apparently, his publicist – he seemed surprised that he even had a publicist – had suggested it, considering the large amount of fan mail he was receiving.

After a bit of internal debate, Francis had decided to go. Perhaps if he could see Arthur one last time and apologise he could move on as well. He wasn't entirely sure what he would do but he couldn't keep himself tied down to a relationship which no longer existed.

So that was why Francis found himself in a queue, shifting his wait nervously. What would Arthur do? Would he yell at him? Would he get security to throw him out? Would he cry?

Would he take him back?

Shaking his head, Francis frowned at himself. No. There was no chance for them. He had to accept this. Francis had to let go of these delusions.

Finally, it was Francis's turn. He almost froze up but he gripped his book tightly and stumbled forward. Arthur hadn't seen him yet, turned towards someone beside him, shaking his hand and laughing. The young author was almost glowing, his eyes shining. Francis suddenly felt that he shouldn't be here, he shouldn't have come. With his head lowered, he placed his book on the table.

"Hello, there!" said Arthur, cheerfully, opening the book. He placed his pen in the centre and paused. "Who should I make this out to, then?"

"Jacques. Jacques Dubois, s'il vous plait," Francis answered, using the fake name Arthur had provided for him when he changed their names for the novel. He watched as Arthur froze. Slowly, Arthur raised his head and stared at Francis, his eyes wide. After a couple of seconds, Francis had to look away.

A scribbling sound forced its way through the background chatter and caught Francis's attention. Glancing back, Francis caught sight of Arthur writing on his book. With a sudden movement, Arthur snapped the book close and held it out. "Here," he said, sounding frosty. Francis flinched as he took the book. Before he could turn and leave, though, Arthur spoke up again. "There's an hour left of this. If you want, you can wait for me outside."

Francis stared at Arthur. Was he being serious? Hesitantly, he gave Arthur a nod and turned to get out of the way.

* * *

Pacing up and down, Francis kept glancing through the window of the shop, anxious about this meeting. What did Arthur want? Had he left something behind in his move? Did he want to punch him? Shout at him?

Stopping, he took a few deep breaths. It wouldn't do to get so worked up. He deserved anything Arthur threw at him. Perhaps it would help Arthur move on completely – from his blog posts, Francis could tell that the author was still attached to the past. Maybe this would help him, even if it would damn Francis.

"Hey," said a voice behind Francis and he twirled to find Arthur standing behind him. He was wearing his customary simple white shirt and smart, black trousers. His book bag was slung over a shoulder. "Follow me," he ordered before stepping past Francis and walking off.

"What?" asked Francis, frowning as he hurried to catch up. "Where are we going?"

"My place," said Arthur, shortly.

"Why?"

"I'll tell you when we get there."

Confused, Francis could only follow. They went to the nearby Tube station and onto a train. After a few minutes journey, they were soon walking through a residential area, filled with tenements. Silently, Arthur unlocked the front door to one and let Francis inside before making his way to his own flat. Francis felt uneasy – Arthur had hated his old flat when he had met him. That was why they had rented themselves a house instead. It seemed almost as though Arthur had gone backwards instead of forwards.

When they entered, Arthur dumped his bag on a table in the hallway and turned into a small kitchen. "The living room's there," he said, pointing behind him without looking round. "Would you like something to drink?"

"Hm, what do you have, exactly?" asked Francis, hesitantly.

"I could give you the wine I got a while back for a flat-warming gift," Arthur's voice floated back through the door. "That bastard Gil decided it would be hilarious to get some Pinot Noir."

"That would be nice, oui," said Francis, sighing in relief.

"Okay, go sit down," Arthur told him as cupboards were opened.

Daring to peek through the door, Francis asked, "Do you need any help?"

Glancing back at him, Arthur shook his head. "Go sit down," he repeated as he pulled a couple of wine glasses out of a rather bare-looking cupboard.

Nodding, Francis retreated and entered the living room. Beneath a rather large window, squatted an ugly television that Arthur had possibly bought second-hand. The grey curtains had been tied out of the way. A bookcase near the television was filled with DVDs. The rest of the walls were hidden by tall bookcases, full to the brim with books. A laptop sat on the coffee table. The couch was old and appeared musty. Beside it, a more comfortable, red armchair sat, a tall lamp beside it to shed light on Arthur when he was reading.

Reluctant to invade a personal space for Arthur, Francis sat down, gingerly, on the couch. He was still clutching the signed book. Carefully, he placed it on the table and looked round as he heard Arthur approaching. He had an open bottle of wine in his hand, as well as the filled glasses and he set them down on the table before retreating to the sanctuary of his armchair.

There was a moment of silence and Francis used it to pick up a glass. Taking a comforting sip, he glanced up at Arthur. The other man was gazing at him, his face expressionless. What was he thinking? What was he going to say?

"I think we should talk," were the sudden words.

"Quoi?" asked Francis, confused.

"We need to talk, Fran... cis," Arthur explained. "When we were together... Well, let's just say that our communication skills are completely shit."

Francis paused and placed the glass carefully on the table. "What do you want to talk about, exactly?"

"About each other. What we think of each other. I mean-" Arthur sighed as he tried to find the words to convey what he was thinking. "Look. What happened... It mostly happened because I couldn't really talk to you and I didn't- We..." Arthur trailed off and glanced at Francis who nodded encouragingly. "We couldn't move on from our arguments and we were always treading on eggshells because we couldn't say everything we wanted. You know why, don't you?"

"I think so..." said Francis, uncertainly. "Because we could not say what was on our minds for fear of..." Francis trailed off, too, not wanting to bring it up.

"See?" said Arthur, sounding exasperated. "I think- I think it would be good for us to say exactly what we think of the other. Well, I say that _I_ think it but it was really Gil's suggestion, if I was ever to encounter you again."

"Really?" said Francis, amused.

"Yes. Kiku's suggestion was to act as though I couldn't recognise you. I don't think I should repeat Alfred's." An amused smile flitted across his face but was quickly replaced by a serious expression. Francis smiled weakly, too, but quickly lost it as he regarded the Brit carefully. "I will start," Arthur said.

"Oui..." said Francis, tense.

"Right, well, I'll start off with the things I... loved about you," Arthur began, his gaze flickering to Francis before he stared down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "I... Well, I loved your looks of course. Not because I _only_ liked you for your looks but... I loved your smile, the way your eyes lit up and... Your hair, er..." He cleared his throat as his cheeks reddened. Francis felt a soft smile on his lips as he listened intently. "I loved your accent. I loved your food – it was always so amazing and I couldn't wait until you could live out your dream. I loved your singing, especially when I was ill and you sang one of those French lullabies. I loved your kindness and your cleverness. It was always lovely to have an intelligent conversation with you – living with Alfred was such a pain." This caused them both to chuckle and Arthur looked up. Their eyes locked and Francis spotted the love in them before Arthur looked away. "I loved how you made me feel in, er, bed and the way you made me feel about myself. I loved your little habits in the morning, your care with your appearance. I loved feeling your arms around me and that you would leave me alone to read instead of interrupting me to make me do something with you. I loved your acceptance and how you would stick up for me.

"However..." Arthur's tone changed from soft to harsh and Francis flinched instinctively. Something bad was about to happen. "However, I hated that you would constantly berate me for my own appearance and insist I did things I didn't want to so that I would 'look better' or whatever you said. I hated that you would mock my own cooking – I know I'm not the best cook but it hurt that, while I accepted that you wanted to be the one to cook, you would ban me from the kitchen completely. And you would never cook the 'rubbish British food'. It made me feel quite homesick and I wished I could go home to my mother so I could get some of her cooking. I knew I couldn't so it frustrated me more – it was as if someone was twisting a knife in my heart." At this, he raised one of his hands to clutch at his chest. Francis spotted something beneath Arthur's sleeve – it looked like a wristband of some sort. He bit his lip and glanced down at his glass.

After a brief pause and after he had cleared his throat, Arthur continued. "I hated your flirting – even if I wasn't around the people you managed to... seduce-" Francis made a noise of alarm but he was silenced with a look from Arthur. "I was still around at some of your office parties and it... distressed me to see you flirting with your colleagues. I hated that you sometimes spoke in French – you knew I wasn't the best but you still did that and it made me feel rather isolated. Most of all, though, I hated that you would make fun of me or rile me up. That would lead to an argument and then you would run off – it- It scared me and annoyed me but what could I do about it?" He shrugged before looking back at Francis. "The thing I hated the most, though... was that I loved you too much to let you go when I discovered you cheating. And I hated that I loved you so much that I was too blind to work out how to fix it."

He finally stopped speaking and took a deep breath, averting his gaze once more. Francis sat still, taking it all in. A lot of the things that Arthur had disliked about him could have been fixed if Francis had only tried, if he had only known. Biting his lip, he took a deep breath through his nose before releasing it in a sigh. "Désol- Er. I apologise, Arthur. I... I have behaved horribly and-"

Arthur cut him off. "Stop. Just say what you thought of me. What you _think _of me."

Silence descended – Francis didn't know if he was willing to blurt everything out after all that had happened. Would Arthur sink back into his depression? Yet, he was the one insisting on it. And the psychologist thought it was a good idea... So, after taking a calming sip of his wine, Francis sat back and gazed at Arthur who was watching him closely.

"For me... I hated those eyebrows – why must they be so big? I hated that you would insist on my speaking Anglais. I hated your cooking: how did you manage to burn the spaghetti? I hated your temper: it was always so quick to flare. I hated your scowling. I hated that you would work too much and come home tired. I hated how you would type away on that laptop but refused to share what you were doing with me. It was not that I could not give you space, more that I hated the fact you did not seem to trust me. You always seemed to think I would make fun of you but I have an idea of how wonderful those stories must be. Do you remember the one time I was ill and you tried to put me to sleep with a story of your own? It kept me awake because I was so enthralled. You ended up tiring yourself out and falling asleep before me." Francis chuckled. "I hated the times you would get so drunk that you were a real handful getting home. I hated that you could not tell the truth, that you could not say 'je t'aime' or the English equivalent easily. I hated when you made disparaging comments about the French or called me a Frog with venom in your voice. I preferred it when you used it with a fondness in your voice..."

"You're... saying things that shouldn't be in the 'hate' section," said Arthur, looking rather confused.

Laughing again, Francis leaned towards him. "That is because I also loved some of those things, too. I loved your eyebrows, Sourcils – you look best _with_ them. If you shaved them, it would be too odd. I loved that I was able to cook for you. I loved your scowling because I knew I could always find a way to make you smile – and I love your smile. I loved your sense of duty: it always made the surprises you brought home or the surprise holidays all the better. I loved that, though you were too nervous about your stories to show them to people, you still did what you were passionate about. I loved when you were drunk – you were always so much more honest." Francis grinned at that and Arthur glanced away. His cheeks were starting to go red and Francis wondered whether it was because he was telling him how much he loved him or the comment about his low tolerance of alcohol. "I loved that you never said 'I love you' much. It always meant all the more when you _did_ say it. I loved that you could make insults terms of endearment. I loved the way you would brighten up when Doctor Who or Sherlock came on the television. I loved the way you looked when you were curled up with a book. I loved that I knew how to make you happy in bed – and you knew how to make me tick, aussi. I loved that you stayed with me despite your family's disapproval. I loved that you were kind and sweet and all manner of lovely traits which would take an age to say.

"In short, chéri, I loved you. I love you."

By this point, Arthur was openly gaping at Francis, his face red. He tried to speak but stuttered and had to stop to take a breath. When he had recovered, he said, "That's- Ah, er... You still love me? After..."

"Oui, of course. I..." Francis paused, not entirely sure if he should admit to what he had been doing for the past year. Cautiously, he told Arthur, "I was unable to enjoy myself without you. This past year, I have stayed at home."

"Reading my blog?" asked Arthur, his eyes flickering towards the signed book.

"Ah... Oui."

They sat in silence for a while, unable to look at each other. Francis picked up his glass of wine and began to nurse it, unable to sit still in this uncomfortable atmosphere. Should he leave now? Was that it? All over? What had talking out their true feelings accomplished? Francis had only just realised how much he loved Arthur – it was going to be even more difficult to let him go.

"I love you," mumbled Arthur, suddenly. Francis nearly dropped his glass as he sat up straight, staring in surprise at the Englishman. He wasn't looking at Francis but he cleared his throat and said, louder, "I love you."

"You..."

Arthur looked him in the eyes. "I love you. Which is why the past year has been so painful despite all the good things which have happened. There have been so many times that I... I just wanted to see you again." His cheeks reddened further and he glanced down. "But... I resisted because I thought you would... be with someone else." Sighing sadly, he glanced up, as if he was looking for some kind of confirmation.

"Chéri..." murmured Francis, feeling the urge to gather him in his arms. He resisted – it wouldn't do to startle him. "I have not been with anyone since you left. And I do not think I will ever be with anyone else ever again."

A smile slowly spread across Arthur's face. "I-I see," he said, quietly. "Not sure if I should believe you or not, though. It's not as if you've given me cause to believe what you say."

"Then, shall I show you?" asked Francis. He winced as he realised how suggestive that sounded. No doubt Arthur would be up in arms about that. Quickly, he tried to save face. "I mean, I will show you how much I love you. Will you let me?"

For a few minutes, Arthur chewed on his lip as he thought. Finally, he sighed. "Fine." Francis brightened, a wide smile on his face, but he quickly deflated at the stern look Arthur gave him. "But we're going to have to go slower than the first time." Francis nodded eagerly, listening intently to what Arthur was saying. "You had better avoid Kiku and Alfred as much as possible, as well. I have no doubt they won't like this. Then again, I hardly see Kiku," Arthur added, thoughtfully. "He's rather busy with his job and his girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" Francis blinked in surprise. In all the years he had known Kiku, he had never known him to be in a relationship.

Grinning, Arthur leaned forward and picked up his glass. "Let me fill you in on what you've been missing."

* * *

As they walked amongst the roses, Arthur inhaled deeply, obviously cherishing the scent. They were holding hands, Francis ignoring the horrible wristbands Arthur insisted on wearing when he was out in public. Someone walked past and glanced at the author, clearly wondering if they were seeing things.

"It's hard to believe," began Arthur, "that, all those years ago, you were standing here with- What was her name, again?"

"Michelle," replied Francis, instantly. "I hear that she has moved in with her boyfriend recently. Though, in all honesty, I try not to speak to her too much."

"For my sake?"

"More for my wallet's sake – she always demands free food." Francis sighed as Arthur chuckled. "You do not mind that I took pity on her and gave her a job, oui?"

"You keep asking me that," sighed Arthur. "And I keep telling you that it's fine."

Francis hummed, unsure whether Arthur was telling him the truth or not. If he wasn't, the promise they had made a few years ago to always tell the truth under these roses would be broken. He decided to believe him and nodded. "Still, I think I shall keep up the practice of not speaking with her – I hear her boyfriend has a rather icy demeanour and I would like to keep him from directing that ice towards me."

With a laugh, Arthur said, "You should tell him to 'let it go' if he does."

They both laughed at that and continued on their way in comfortable silence. Soon, they came to their favourite part – the wall of red roses. Here, Francis would always kiss Arthur, not caring if he in the mood for public affection or not. Before Francis could pull Arthur towards him, however, the Englishman had pulled his hand from his grip and turned to face him.

"What is it?" asked Francis, blinking.

"I just wanted to explain something."

"Hm?"

"Well, four years ago, when I asked you to go on that walk and you blew me off to be with Michelle-"

"That was-" Francis tried to protest but he was silenced by a finger at his lips.

"Hush. I asked you to go on a walk so that we could come here."

"Oh?"

"Yes. I wanted to propose to you, right here."

Francis stared, his stomach plummeting. How could he have been so stupid as to ruin such a happy ending? Though, he supposed it explained why Arthur hadn't treated his cheating the same as always and let it pass. "You know, I still have that ring," Francis admitted.

"Sheesh. I told you I didn't want to see it again," sighed Arthur. "Not to worry. You won't need it."

"Quoi-?" began Francis only to cut himself off when he spotted Arthur dropping to one knee. "Arthur?"

"I've been thinking about this for a while and... Well, I figured that, if I ever told you that piece of information I haven't told anyone else..." Arthur looked up at Francis with a smile. "It meant that I had pushed past my depression. You know fine well I've not taken those pills for a while but... I think this is it. Completely cured." He grinned and one of his hands dove into his pocket. Francis stopped breathing as Arthur pulled out a small box. "And I thought that, if I got past it, then... Well, it's only fair to do what I was planning." Opening the box, Arthur revealed a glinting, silver ring. "So, Francis Bonnefoy, will you marry me?"

Without any hesitation, Francis replied, "Yes."

* * *

_**Eh, I know that depression probably can't just disappear just like that. I expect Arthur is lying to both himself and Francis that he's perfectly fine. Or, maybe, he's just too happy to realise that it's not just gone. Or- Look, I just wanted a nice, happy ending so it's probably incorrect. I'm sorry. =/  
**_

_**The Let It Go reference: Arthur spent almost a year in Alfred's flat - do you think he escaped without seeing Frozen? (He quite liked it - Elsa's his favourite and he introduced it to Francis. Who also liked Elsa for some reason.)**_

_**The difference in the rings: The first ring, Arthur went all out, was a little desperate to have it work. The second one he was more confident in himself and Francis's response. And he was right to be.**_

_**Ah, that reminds me - someone mentioned that this relationship, with Francis cheating, was a horrible one and, basically, they did not condone it. I don't condone it either and would probably have kicked him. Hard. In the general **_**there _area. But... At the same time, Francis did love Arthur. I think he was just scared of it failing. Perhaps, in the past, in France, he had a relationship with a lot of arguments which, ultimately, ended. I'm not sure, though. _  
**

**_Why the heck did I write this story, again?_**

**_You know, the original idea was basically: Francis leaving the house after Arthur shouting at him, going off to a woman, coming back to Arthur having committed suicide. I kind of had to flesh it out, I suppose, and decided not to have Arthur die._**

**_Ah. This chapter is called "Alone" because I was going to have one of the characters say "I don't want to be alone." But the conversations didn't lend themselves to that. _**

**_And now... I want to discuss what happened/happens to the characters. Because I'm not writing any more of this AU._**

**_Francis and Arthur: Marry. Adopt a baby they call Matthew (or Matthieu, if you're gonna be French about it). He learned French from Francis and English from both of them and ended up developing a strange accent which was a mix of them. Growing up, he loved the visits of his "uncles", Al and Kiku. In fact, he was so fond of Al, he kinda copied his style until he grew out of it and tried restyling. Yet he still looked kind of like Al. Luckily, both Francis and Arthur can tell the difference. Unfortunately for Mattie..._**

**_Alfred: He was rather overprotective of Artie, huh? That's mainly cause he's a friend. However... I never did decide whether Al was straight or bisexual. I know, once he became a somewhat famous actor, he had a string of girlfriends but, ultimately, he ends up with his five cats: Hero, Crumpet, Escargot, Sushi and Maple. ... Poor thing. Anyways, if he was bisexual, then the real reason he's protective of Artie is cause he has a one-sided crush. _**

**_Kiku: He was working with CGI and ended up moving back to Japan with his girlfriend, a blonde named Alice. Because I like the name Alice and then... Fem!England came to mind... So.  
_**

**_Gil and Liz: Totally sorted out their problems and got themselves married._**

**_Michelle: Her boyfriend is Emil. You know - Iceland._**

**_(The receptionist at the hospital was Monaco, by the way.)_**

**_Also, there were a few alternate ways this could have worked out: 1) Arthur died. Francis accepted the blame and went through life never married and ending up lonely. 2) Arthur got together with Alfred (but this I deemed too clichéd and just... urgh.) 3) Arthur didn't get together with Alfred but refused to get back together with Francis. _**

**_(Which would mean poor Mattie would grow up in an orphanage and... Wow. Those would completely change the future. Huh.)_**

**_I think that's it. _**


End file.
